Two Poems

LAKE VOSTOK FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF A YETI CRAB

The Russians are impatient.
They’re serving seal meat
in the soviet canteen,
the coldest restaurant on earth.

But down here the oxygen is tender
We don’t mind the sub glacial dark,
the atomic pressure;
We know no other season
or climate.

Still, some distraction would be nice.
Nothing lavish. A mysterious barnacle,
a visit from the pale octopus.
A small act of mercy
or even sex.

We’re not ready for the age of air
of polar wind
and sunshine

We’re self-sufficient
In our long blond arm hair
we’ve cultivated private hedges of bacteria
and communal lice.

Above the ice the drills have stopped.
Temperatures descend.
The Russians are homesick
which is a long word in their language.

They’ll return in the spring to photograph
the hidden wells of Vostok
but for now the lake is still and rock blue
buried in darkness as permanent as winter.

WAITING MANUAL

If you’re going to meet him be aware of yellow
lights; be aware that his time is more precious
than yours, or anyone else’s on this train. Be
prepared to wait. Stare at every passenger that
disembarks, especially the brown-haired ones.
Think. Everything has an expiry date, even solar
wind, even metal.

Get a professional headshot made. Buy
bubblegum from a bubblegum dispenser. It’s
been there since the 50s. It’s waited longer than
you. Wander through department stores, through
cosmetic stores passed women who have never
waited. Boost productivity by planning
conversations. Plan reactions to those
conversations. Ride escalators, watch people from
above, talk to strange men. Tell them that a
woman was strangled by an escalator in Montreal.
Watch them take the stairs.

Buy your mom a birthday gift, even though it’s six
months away and you always forget so she doesn’t
expect anything anyway. Be better prepared this time.
Bring a difficult book. Bring a chair, a bag of
toiletries, a prayer mat. You have a diploma in
waiting, like the star spaniel at the trainer’s. Sit.
Wait. Resist the gulls. Resist the stranger’s lunch.
The temptation to itch.

It’s around the time when the janitors unplug the
giant Christmas tree. It hums and blinks like a
huge computer going to sleep. Security is
beginning to think you’re looking for a late-night
catch, a dad on his diaper run, a lost business type
or a ticket collector with a bag of disposable
toothbrushes. Hello, they say. Can we help you?
Don’t give them the satisfaction. Resist. Tell them
you’re waiting. Tell them he’ll be on the last train.
Offer them a gumball; roll it around in your hand.
Offer them War and Peace. Sit. Wait. Now they’ve
turned off the escalators. Sit and wait and wait for him.